The Grass is Always Greener
by The-Queen-of-Fantasy
Summary: One girl per dozen kids makes for an unequal but bearable balance in the Glade, a place that Cleo makes the best of by sewing up wounds and cracking sharp wit. Though she's wary of the wonders and dangers their outdoorsy home holds, Cleo still finds time to have her heart captured by a fellow Glader. Newt\OC movie-verse
1. An Arm and a Leg

**Hey everybody! We're back with a jump into another fandom after having this planned for literally years. Please comment and enjoy!**

If the Gladers were the prayin' type, they'd be prayin' for some wind.

Or some rain, or maybe just a giant cloud. Something, _anything_ to fend off the shucking sun and its shucking rays of heat. That was Gally's phrase of the day.

It made the air hot and heavy, and not in a good way. More stale, settling uncomfortably in throats and crawling slowly over cotton-covered back muscles. That must've been what possessed the slicers to come up with yet another dumb game to play while they worked.

At least, that was Cleo's theory. Because somewhere between testing who can slice the hardest and the craziest positions a person can wield a machete from, more than a few fingers and arms were cut open.

Which in turn made the med-jack hut the most popular spot in the Glade as the workday drew to a close. Cleo was stationed farthest left inside the hut, perched on a stool while a stocky guy sat on the cot in front of her. Blood was caked under her fingernail stubs and there were grooves on her index finger from wrapping and unwrapping thread.

"You're golden, send the next one in." She smacked his good shoulder as he exited toward the line swirling out of the hut into the late afternoon heat.

A sheepish Winston ducked inside, hand clamped over his forearm. He hadn't made it two steps before Jeff's head snapped up from his work and he barked, "Yo, these are all _your_ shanks makin' a mess in here."

Clint joined in. "Yeah, Winston. Do I have to start amputatin' or something?"

Winston waved them off and thumped down in front of Cleo. "You gonna give me klunk about this, too?"

"Now why ever would you think that?" Her voice was laced with sarcasm as sharp as the alcohol she was dabbing into his open wound. "It's not like we have to keep a runnin' count of how many slicers per week have to be patched up or anything."

A smile tugged at his lips before dragging back downward when the needle first pulled through his skin. Cleo's breathing slowed, her eyesight narrowing for total concentration on the stitching in front of her. There was sweat dampening her forehead and what felt like a fly flitting at the base of her neck, but nothing serious enough to halt the procedure.

A few strong knocks suddenly rattled the door. "I told you, there's a line and you'll just have to wait in it!" Clint called to whatever kid outside was feeling impatient.

It was Alby's head that popped in, however, and he surveyed the scene with a cocked brow. "How are things in here?"

"Peachy." Cleo set down the threaded needle before rolling her shoulders back to work out the kinks. "Frypan may have had a bit more blood to cook out of the meat, but I think everyone will make it."

Alby turned to Jeff and his patient, a pale boy named Arnie. "Even you got in on it, Greenie?"

Arnie nodded, looking down to his four bandaged fingers. "I can't be the only one that's gotten carried away before, right?"

"Look at your company. It's not new. Some of these guys are in here for every incident." Even a stern glance at Winston couldn't hide the teasing smile in Alby's eyes. "And Clint, soon as everybody's done, food's being served."

At the mention of dinner, Cleo's stomach rumbled in tandem with Jeff's excited holler. The few remaining boys had more minor injuries and they were efficiently ushered in and out, clean and bandaged and ready to devour Frypan's layout.

Cleo sat quiet for the breadth of a second once the last slicer was gone, then broke a wide grin at Clint and Jeff. "I'd say we did a bang-up job, boys."

"I'm sure they'll throw us parade one of these days," Jeff replied.

Cleo shook her head and looked down to survey her own damage. The maroon hue of her shirt absorbed bloodstains well, making her seem more sanitary than she actually was. Some fluids were fresher and sat in slick patches along her arms, while others had dried and left the shirt material sticking to her skin as she stretched this way and that to put away medical supplies.

By the time the hut was properly reorganized, Clint and Jeff were tearing out the door to go join the long line of boys for food. Cleo was a few paces behind them, but veered the opposite direction toward the showers at the edge of the forest.

The sky was still cloudless as far as the eye could see over the trees and over those damn walls. Even after ten months in the Glade, there were still moments when Cleo would be jolted by the sight of their trap. She refused to imagine what it was like for those who'd been there for most of the three years that Gladers had been sent up.

As a free breeze was finally brushing against Cleo's stifled skin, the showers came into view and a telltale bra was already hung over one of the makeshift curtains. The sound of running water was a siren's song that drew her into a jog.

"Eliza, how's it feel?" Cleo's voice was raised a couple notches to be heard from yards away.

"Thought I was going to melt out there!" the Glade's other female called. "And what took you so long to get over here? I was startin' to think I'd washed your towel for nothing."

Cleo had barely made it into the adjoining stall before she was yanking her shirt over her head and a whirlwind of the rest of her clothes followed suit. Her fingers meandered up her dark braid, loosening the coarse curls from their daily snare as she answered, "The slicers were restless again today and so Clint, Jeff, and I were patchin' up for a solid couple hours."

"I'm sure Alby had a field day with that one." There was a small smile evident in Eliza's voice.

Standing as one of the taller heads in the Glade, Eliza was the second to come out of the box after Alby and they were inseparable. If anybody were to be deemed the Glader parents, the ones to have paved an easier way for the rest, it was them. And though she denied that role, Eliza was that perfectly motherly image – blonde, sweet, and a hell of a track-hoe.

"Surprisingly, Alby was cool with it. Now it's just gettin' to be funny," Cleo answered and released a contented sigh as the first strong streams of water spilled over her warm amber skin. Her off-duty shower was about as close to a spa day as she could get.

Eliza hummed a note of discontent. "I just wish funny didn't leave scratches."

Cleo lathered down her arms with the rough soap and let the topic drop; worriers will worry, after all. Soon the small talk resumed and kept the women occupied as they washed away the day's heat and filth. Eliza's shower shut off a beat before Cleo's and left them wrapped in the hushed sounds of the Glade welcoming its waning temperatures.

With pants tucked in untied boots and an undershirt hanging loosely on her frame, Cleo followed the blonde the few steps to the clothesline to hang the remaining articles out in the fresher air. She could always count on a breeze to keep her shirt at least smelling like it was kinda clean. Extra wash days weren't exactly on her list of fun anyway.

The scent of food finally drew the pair across the meadow toward dinner and they strolled past rows of boys toward the serving table up front.

"My last two!" Frypan called, twirling the ladle with a bright smile. "Hope you liked that soup from lunch, ladies, 'cause here it is again."

Eliza's head bobbed with appreciation. "It'll be delicious all over again, Frypan. Thanks." She took her bowl and nestled herself appropriately next to Alby at the far right of all the Gladers.

"Heard you got busy with a few slicers today, Cleo," Frypan commented nonchalantly while pouring up her meal, and the slopper behind him snorted with laughter.

"Busy keepin' them alive, shuckface. Maybe I shoulda let 'em bleed a little more, teach 'em a lesson." Her smirk quickly cracked into a smile at Frypan's loud laugh and he waved her off.

Cleo wriggled herself a space between Jeff and the slicer next to him, splashing a few drops of the soup onto their arms when the bowl hit the table. Just before she shoved a spoonful into her mouth, she quipped, "How can I eat with y'all smellin' like a pig sty?"

Jeff raised his eyebrows, unamused. "And you think a shower made you smell like a damn princess?"

She shrugged off his taunt and propped her elbows up on the rough table. Chewing contentedly, she listened in to a few other surrounding conversations until a tug on one of her half-dry curls brought her attention back to Jeff's smug face.

"I totally won today, by the way."

Cleo's back straightened and she barked out a laugh. "No way! Shut your lyin' mouth."

The med-jack hut was no stranger to a little healthy competition. Therefore, on days like the one they were wrapping up, Jeff and Cleo would keep a strict tally of the number of Gladers they each sewed up.

Jeff just snickered at her. "I reeled in a few extras right at the end, not to mention Abe's shoulder took you awhile."

"Clint!" Cleo slapped her arm pleadingly across the table toward the guy charged with keeping the rivalry honest. "C'mon, what really happened?"

Clint barely kept a straight face at her desperation. "I swear, Jeff won squarely. Beat ya by two."

Both boys laughed as Cleo cleared her throat and jutted her chin up. Then a thought pranced its way across her mind and she gave Jeff a haughty side-eye.

"But you still haven't beat my overall record."

"Shuck, Cleo! That was one stroke of random luck that my thread was tangled in three different spots. And it was back when you were still our legit Greenie!" Jeff stood as he grumbled, but still picked up Cleo's empty bowl to bring to the kitchen along with his.

She gulped water from her tin cup and muttered to Clint, "Never letting that one go."

* * *

The end of the afternoon lazily crawled into dusk and soon the long shadows disappeared from the treeline. It could only cool off so much after the sweltering daytime, remaining warm enough to invite the entire arsenal of insects that the Glade had to offer. People were constantly pausing from their evening hobbies to swat left and right at the ominous buzzing.

Cleo was pretty sure she inhaled a gnat, as suddenly she found herself sitting up from the edge of the wide meadow and hacking her lungs out onto the wildflowers next to her, making a slew of Gladers protest and lean the other way.

"Gross. Y'alright?" Winston was leaned against the homestead a few feet away, carving at yet another piece of wood under the lantern light. He swore he'd start selling the little figurines one day. Maybe when they got _out_.

"Tryin' to not have bugs for a late dessert," Cleo rasped when her breathing evened out.

The steady rumble of conversation resumed, accompanied by a few guys sharpening knives in another circle. Frypan thumped rhythmically in the dirt to lend a little background music that Cleo found herself swaying to.

One by one the Gladers dropped off toward the homestead's promise of sweet rest, and even Cleo had stood to brush off her pants by the time Alby approached with another lantern, flanked by Eliza and Newt.

"Alright stragglers," Alby drawled and dipped his head toward the homestead, "let's head on."

The horrid metal-on-metal creaking that was now commonplace background noise sounded from the maze just as Newt filed in line to walk behind Cleo, the warmth of the lantern in his hand spreading across her back.

"Zart's threatening to go streaking tomorrow if it's as bloody hot as it was today."

Cleo snorted, sweeping her dark mane over one shoulder to look behind her. "Not the mental picture I wanted."

Newt's smirk peered through the shadows as the group maneuvered inside the homestead but he remained right next to her. "Always glad to help."

Her muscles elongated bottom upwards as she pulled herself into a stretch and mused, "Better Zart lose his clothes than more shank slicers lose fingers. I'll have Winston's head next time."

"Can't tell me you don't love it," he countered. "You'd rather have 'em lined up outside than no one at all."

Cleo tried to steel her own dark eyes to glare at his, she really did. But prideful as she was, he always knew to call out klunk when he saw it.

"G'night, Newt." Her tired voice couldn't hide the smile behind it.

His own whisper carried before he made headway toward his own room. "Night, Cleo."

The breathable fabric of her hammock could not have been more inviting for Cleo as she toed off her boots and swung into it from the left. It took a few minutes for the roomful of drowsy Gladers to settle and resettle themselves, but she had drifted into the clutches of sleep before the last lantern was out.


	2. Fit as a Fiddle

**I hope y'all don't mind ridiculously long chapters every now and then, because this one just keeps on going :)**

"Ugh, finally, I was about to tear the whole homestead apart," Cleo tensely whispered as her fingers closed around the soft material of her bra where it lay hidden under her hammock. A few of the boys stirred, disturbed by her hushed racket, and so she slipped out the door before being found guilty.

The muted dewiness of morning in the Glade held its own kind of charm. The few cattle lowed softly under the cotton candy sky as the sun just started to introduce itself over the maze walls. Cleo was one of the few always up early, mostly amongst the runners. And Alby, of course.

Minho could already be seen dashing back and forth with the other runners for a morning warm-up. Cleo waved when they crossed her path, and he tipped a nod between calls of, "C'mon shanks, keep up!"

Cleo changed clothes and was waiting for Eliza behind the kitchen with boots laced tightly as her hamstrings. The girls flew through a few stretches before Cleo straightened and set her jaw.

"I'm game if you are. Let's roll."

And off they went. It was a light jog at first, thumping through patches of damp weeds no louder than rabbits. Then they sped up, hair freely swinging back and forth and any imperfections in the maze wall to their right smoothed into one blur of gray stone. No words were exchanged, just foot in front of foot as Cleo led the way by two paces.

Four laps was their typical routine, occasionally spruced up by more or less laps or maybe an extra half. It kept the two women agile and did what coffee couldn't – wake you up without waiting for boiling water and steeping grinds.

Cleo hurdled the clear creek in the woods much higher than was necessary, hazel eyes wide and mirthful. Curls flooded her vision as she landed and it took a strong exhale to puff them out of the way. Soon the last tree branch brushed her arm as the two made it out of the woods.

The clearer path made for a less strategic run. Skidding into a sharp turn as the next wall dictated, Cleo swiped a fist across her temple and shook off the sweat. It was always so freeing to run, to only have her own two feet and strong lungs to rely on. Conversely, seeing the perimeters of where she was allowed to exist kept her realistic. Sometimes hopeful.

Maybe she wouldn't always have to run that same dirt trail.

"Have fun, ladies," Minho called from the entrance to the maze where the runners were poised to enter for the day. Cleo's focus snapped toward the group and she swung a wide wave.

Eliza was the one to answer. "Of course. Y'all do the same!"

The entrance was clear by the time the women darted by and they only slowed down fractionally to gaze into the mysterious passageway. Eliza would always claim getting chills at the sight. Cleo blamed a breeze.

The girls' rapid pace next brought them racing toward the collection of Gladers' names carved into the wall, and Cleo's mouth set into a reverent line. She stuck out a calloused hand and let it drag across one particular name at the outer edges of the grouping.

 _JOAN_

Whoever those damn Creators were, they had a lot to learn about fractions. One girl in every dozen Gladers was not equal, if that was the goal. Eliza was after Alby and she didn't see another female face for a year. Then up came Joan.

Fiery had been the only way to describe her, to be honest. Her hair, her energy, she even liked her food spicy. Minho always said it only took one sprint to know she'd be an excellent runner. And maybe the fact that he and Joan would come back from a slow day in the maze with disheveled clothes had a bit to do with it, too.

If Eliza was a gentle mother when Cleo arrived, then Joan was the magnetic crazy aunt. Cleo was stricken with admiration for the redhead and Joan obliged by teaching Cleo the ropes about anything they could get their hands on.

Until a month and a half into Cleo's time in the Glade, when Joan didn't come back from the maze one silent afternoon.

It was Cleo's first death to cope with. She dealt with the loss quietly, and loudly on an outburst or two, but mostly angrily. Newt was also etched in that same memory, keeping her company for the night and being a low and steady voice of reason as she sat outside the homestead staring at the vile walls. It was real good of him to do, making sure she didn't get too reckless.

And so the Glade was cut back to two girls. The pain was dealt with and pushed away, but it didn't mean that Cleo and Eliza couldn't let their fingers brush over her etching each morning.

* * *

After the girls' run and cool down and the rest of the Glade had joined the conscious world, breakfast was served and scarfed down in a matter of minutes. Since Cleo wasn't slated for dish duty, she skirted away to the comfort of the med-jack hut.

Clint whirled to face her at the creak of the door opening, eyebrows reaching upwards. Definitely a deer in headlights.

Cleo tossed him a laugh. "Relax, buddy. I ain't tattlin' on the extra biscuit you grabbed."

"Slim it. Aren't you fielder today?"

"Don't I know it, boss-man."

Cleo made a show of a mock salute before yanking a large leather satchel off of the wall behind her. The bag held extra med supplies, the most useful and transportable ones for use by whichever of the med-jacks that day was the "fielder" – walking out and about through the Glade's fields, checking up on stitches and serving as first responder to any new injuries.

Cleo slung the bag across her chest and was still wrapping tattered gauntlets on her wrists when Jeff backed into the hut, yelling at someone aways off.

"Hey man, your shank self had best clam up, or you'll be gettin' it later!" He turned once the door had shut and was met with Clint and Cleo's expectant gazes. "I was just messin' with Winston, no need for starin' like I've turned purple."

"I dunno, you look pretty funny to me," Clint deadpanned, then ducked to avoid the clump of gauzes chunked at him.

Cleo bent forward to flip her hair in front of her, then started piecing it together for one hell of a high ponytail. A few stray curls fell to lay around her ears, one of which Jeff instinctively reached for.

"I think you like being fielder too much." He yanked on the strand. "You look a bit too happy to be leavin' mine and Clint's wonderful company."

She gave the satchel another tug, then brushed away Jeff's arm with a scoff. "Says you who was bout to start throwin' down with him over there. Besides, somebody's gotta take our show on the road."

The woods were Cleo's first destination, almost unconsciously. A little past the deadheads were the most fertile grounds of the whole shaded part of the Glade, from which sprouted all the extra little flowers and herbs not specifically cultivated by the track-hoes. She stepped gingerly around the area, petting fuzzy leaves and inhaling the strikingly citrus scent of a couple orange flowers.

Jeff was right, being outside held that much more appeal. More socializing, more sunshine, more of a challenge if a new injury popped up. What more could a girl want?

Soon she headed back out to the open field where less bugs were around to gnaw at her bare arms. Her tank top was still roomy enough to catch some wind, billowing out from her back and letting a breeze brush up her muscles. Sharp laughter floated with the wind, too. Cleo turned to find it coming from the gardens and made immediate headway toward Newt, who was on the end of a row closest to her.

He looked up when she approached, a wide grin still lingering on his mouth from the last joke told.

"Are you tryin' to blind us with the sun? It's bright enough out here already, Cleo."

She rolled her eyes before glancing at her left shoulder. It was true, the cut of her tank revealed the tattoo spiraling out from the top of the socket – a large sun in the darkest gold ink to show up against her skin with the beams stretching half a foot in each direction on her body. It wasn't her only ink either; an intricate vine of purple flowers wound down the right side of her ribs and the outline of a mountain range sat at the top of both thighs.

But the sun on her shoulder was more often seen, and Newt almost never failed to tease her about it.

"Where do they teach ya to be so shuckin' hilarious?" Cleo fished a water bottle out of the satchel, the liquid sliding smoothly down the desert of her throat. "And it's funny you're talkin', you've got skin paler than mine shining out here!"

Newt only paused shoveling for a moment to drag his hair out of his eyes before his voice rang out again. "Thanks for your worry but I'm pretty sure it's Zart who's more likely to get sunburned."

"I heard that," Zart protested from a few rows away.

Cleo muttered, "I'm just glad you decided to keep your clothes on."

Newt's mouth spread wide again as he laughed. "You and me both. I'd be headin' to you for something to fix my blindness with."

"Speakin' a which, anybody need sewing up? Anybody hurt?" Cleo's raised voice was heard by the rest of the track-hoes. "I'm doing fielder rounds, may as well take advantage."

Eliza piped up from her crouched position of trimming plants. "But that wasn't an invitation to get reckless just cause Cleo here could fix it."

There was a rumbled agreement of _no_ along with promises of not causing any injuries once she was gone. Cleo brushed at the longest strands of hair from her ponytail that were tickling her neck as she followed the yellowed grass road leading away from the gardens.

The slicers were equally uneventful, save tightening a few bandages. Better than human bloodspill matching the animals'.

But the remainder of her round was boring, too. Builders, bricknicks, baggers, everyone was checked by noon, all without so much as a scratch to disinfect or a bruise to ice. Everyone except the runners, of course. They came trampling in at lunchtime, sweat droplets jumping ship to cool off Cleo's arm as they rushed past toward the kitchen.

Runners were prideful; they only sought medical attention when there was an emergency, and even then sometimes not. Which meant gashes would fester, med-jacks would order a rest day or two, and Minho would yell at everyone involved.

Like trying to get past trees themselves, Cleo found herself clawing through dense bodies to get to the front corner of the meal tables. It was habit to be curious about the food being served, as was the taller shoulder bumping into hers and providing an answer.

"Meat tray today. Carrots, too," Alby's deep voice rumbled. "Somebody musta let Ben choose the menu."

The tent over the tables was at odds with Cleo's angle to the sun, making her squint to look up at his dark features. "They probably gave Frypan a barrelful of klunk after soup a third time."

"Hope you don't mind redo's as much as they do, Cleo, cause I'd like to ya to do your rounds again. I heard a lotta roughhousin' from the builders right before food call."

"Sure thing. Mind if I add a few cartwheels to pep things up? Kinda quiet last time."

Alby clapped her shoulder and she could feel the vibration from his chuckle travel through his hand, and then he was off to his next destination. But it wasn't long before the fluctuating tide of boys washed another one back to her side.

Newt's profile was easy to distinguish. "Alby want a round two today?"

"Yeah, insurance for antsy builders." Cleo's eyes traveled to those stocky boys at their table but turned back before she got to Gally. A cloud of unpleasant tension usually blocked her vision anyway.

"Ain't that the truth," Newt said, his gaze meeting hers and dissolving her discomfort. "And you could probably build a house just as fast as them with all that thread in the bag."

The sun's heat against her back was as warm and sharp as her smirk. "I'll be takin' that as a compliment."

"Some of those escape me every now and then."

"Then try and escape this!"

Cleo flung herself onto Newt's back and he caught her, just like he did every time. Breathy laughs blustered between them and he traipsed to the back of the food line. From her proud vantage point she could see over a few more heads than normal and his tight grip on her legs kept it that way, even as she flicked a few gestures at some friends in the crowd.

But all good things must come to an end.

"I like the view, you two!"

A taunt from one of those damn antsy builders made Cleo scoff loudly but she was on the same page as Newt, unceremoniously sliding off his back and yet not moving any farther away. No shanks were gonna goad her that far.

Newt's voice was lowered to quip, "So d'ya sew mouths?"

"Soon as you say so, second-in-command."

* * *

The warmth was a bird hatching to life at Cleo's feet, then flitting upward around her thighs and waist before ghosting its last feathers over the tip of her nose. Of course, the flames didn't reach that high in real life. The small fire was wide but short and was far from any of the Glade's wooden structures, especially her med-jack hut.

You'd think the Creators would've sent down some sheetrock if they expected the Gladers to use fire so frequently.

A large silver cooking pot landed with a dull _thunk_ in the dirt next to Cleo's flaming creation and Frypan's voice accompanied his long shadow in the lantern light. "You sent Jeff to tell me ya needed to borrow one of my pots again? Don't ya have your own two legs and a mouth?"

"If I let him tend my fire on his own, I either wouldn't get one or half the Glade would be a burnt mess." She filled the pot with water and hung it on the bar just out of the reach of flames.

He gently pushed her shoulder and cracked a grin. "Good that, just make sure ya clean it before it gets back to me. I don't wanna be tastin' none of that flower klunk next time I'm serving up stew."

Cleo's foot tapped in time to the beat of his retreating steps, watching and waiting for the water to boil. The med-jacks had abruptly run out of their most popular medicine just before dinner, much to Cleo's annoyance as she'd only been able to scarf half a meal down.

There were lingering grains of dirt on her palms from pulling up the distinctive purple blooms, which way back when she'd jokingly called passionflower until the name stuck. Cleo had only been in the Glade about a week before curiosity was frying every nerve and she picked one of each of the bright wild flowers that the meadows grew and studied them closely. It was the beginning of her reputation as an avid experimenter, and it was the passionflower that sealed her fate as a med-jack.

The flower wasn't particularly beautiful or scented, but when the whole plant root to tip was boiled, it left behind an oil that in small doses served as a painkiller. Larger quantities could knock any Glader out cold.

Cleo was tossing the last flower into the chockfull pot when Jeff walked up. "How close are we on the oil being ready? Arnie just walked in, looks awful and says he's pretty achy."

"Alright, just tell the greenie to hang on a few more minutes. It's almost done." She puffed out a sigh of frustration. "And we've gotta tighten up on inventory, all three of us."

Jeff tipped a nod. "Well, we're not med-jacks for our knack at keepin' klunk organized."

The small smile was still resting on Cleo's lips as she gingerly pulling the waterlogged plants from the pot and wringing the desired oil from the petals. It filled three flasks full by the time she was done and she kicked just enough dirt onto the dying embers before jogging to the hut.

"Here you go, kid." Cleo gave the greenie a small dosage while Jeff filled her in on the rest.

"Arnie here feels like he's runnin' a fever, on top of 'not feeling good', of course." He and Cleo shared a look before he continued. "I'm thinkin' twenty-four-hour bug."

Cleo nodded and grasped Arnie's shoulder. "I agree with Jeff, buddy. Go sleep it off, I'll let Alby know. If you get to feelin' too bad, I'll give you some more passionflower."

Arnie weakly smiled his thanks and plodded out of the hut into the twilight. Cleo convinced herself it was pointless to reorganize the supply cabinet and better to simply stuff the oil flasks variably around the hut.

The door flew open moments later and Clint came in. "I was out in the woods after dinner, sorry." He strode across the room, depositing a small axe and his sturdiest boots in a back corner.

"What was it today, lumberjack?" Jeff asked amusedly, crossing his arms.

Clint paused, already halfway back out the door. "More workouts and I'm almost done with another chair."

He was gone only a few moments before Jeff turned to Cleo and disbelief scratched at his voice. "Are y'all still serious about this? Do you really think it'll work?"

A laugh jumped out of her throat. "Who knows? It might be a long shot but I'm still hopin' we can pull it off. I told Clint to wait until after the new greenie shows up in a few days to break it to Alby and Gally."

"Well just lemme know when I'm supposed to start listenin' to you as the authority for all our klunk." The door slapped closed behind him as he went to join the rest of the Gladers.

Cleo tossed a cluster of curls over her shoulder and dismissed the rumble of her half-empty stomach. She honestly had no idea whether or not the plan that Clint had thrown at her a month ago was gonna work.

If it did, and all Clint's sneaking around and working out in the forest paid off, then he would become a builder and leave Cleo in charge as Keeper of the med-jacks. Apparently that job had taken its toll on Clint or some mushy klunk like that. Jeff had no interest in the leadership and probably little faith in the plan at all. It was a secret that had yet to leave their hut and wouldn't until it seemed like their heads wouldn't get ripped off.

Fat chance with Gally involved.

But any prospects of change pushed Cleo's blood a little faster through her veins, and she wouldn't back down from a challenge any sooner than Frypan would let food go to waste.

A dull knock on the wooden door startled her. She didn't have time to wonder what shank even took the time to knock anymore before it swung open to reveal Newt, a lantern in one hand illuminating the pair of cookies in the other.

"Frypan set 'em out as free-for-alls again and I was just fast enough." He nodded smugly.

Newt was one of the notable sweet-tooths in the Glade along with Cleo, and they always made sure to look out for each other when Frypan put the Creators' gift of sugar to good use.

She took an appreciative bite and rolled the confection around in her mouth. "My hero."

"And that's enough work for today, alright? Come on out."

Following him without a second thought, Cleo emerged into the nightfall and let the breeze sweep away the day as easily as it tufted Newt's hair this way and that. The pair plopped down in sync when they reached familiar faces, leaving the typical night crew to swim in the flood of cricket songs harmonizing in the meadows. It was peaceful and pleasant and almost pretty, if not for the Great Walls of _shuck the Creators_.

Newt bumped his boot to Cleo's and cocked an eyebrow that was arched cartoonishly by the shadows. "Heard you were a bit last minute with some pain meds this evening."

"Is nothing sacred?" she groaned. "Were you literally just watchin' the tomatoes grow and needed somethin' else to think about?"

"Well Minho can't be the only bloody source of gossip racing around here."

That quip earned him a clump of dirt to the shoulder from Minho himself, who followed with, "Slim it. Your shank selves are just in love with me."

"High talk for someone who seems to only love his own two legs," Cleo tossed back.

Giggles and snorts passed around the motley few, and Cleo was giving a triumphant wave when retaliation struck.

"Least I've got somethin' better to love than some dumb flowers."

A chorus of _ooh_ s rang out and Cleo could only shrug it off. It was too late at night and the air was too lulling to really get riled up about a few teases, so she stuck to fighting off Newt's taunting laugh with a tongue poked out.

He sobered as his eyes rested on hers a beat too long, something that happened more often than not. As he reverted to his favorite pastime of pushing aimlessly at his jaw with a few fingers, Cleo took it upon herself to reroute the conversation.

"Bet you three biscuits it'll be builders I have to use the passionflower on next time."

"I'll bite," Newt retorted with a gleam in his eye. "Slicers."

Frypan rubbed his hands together gleefully. "Oh alright! We got ourselves some real gamblers. I'll have an extra batch on standby."

"Can I bet in with runners?" Minho piped up, high-fiving those beside him.

"You'd trip up Ben just to win some extra food," Cleo accused, "and that ain't fair."

He leveled a smirk at her. "Didn't I see Newt sneakin' dessert away for you? You're over there callin' unfair when you didn't even have to fight for the cookies."

"Shuck off, mate." The air reverberated with Newt's accent and he met Cleo's fistbump easily. "Did I hurt your feelings by not bringin' ya a damn picnic?"

"Maybe."

Everyone's cackling echoed late into the night, drowning out the dread in their chests with each metallic creak from the maze.

 **Let me know if you have guesses as to what historical figures each of the ladies are named after!**


	3. Knock Your Socks Off

**Thanks for the feedback so far, guys!**

 **AlexBlack001, you were right on the money. Cleo is named after Cleopatra, Joan after Joan of Arc, and Eliza is for Queen Elizabeth II.**

 **Enjoy this next chapter!**

The blaring of the horn ricocheted back and forth between the Glade's stone walls, shattering Cleo's concentration on the gauze wrap in front of her. She pressed a strong palm over the wound and snapped her head toward Clint.

"Alright, cover for me. I wanna see the greenie."

With her pressure on the slicer's arm replaced by Clint's hand, Cleo was free to shuck off her overshirt and dash out of the hut. Most of the other Gladers were already swarming to the box and Cleo dodged a swinging rake to find a running niche behind Zart, nearly slamming into him when the group came to a halt.

Anticipation buzzed at eye-level under the afternoon sun as the alarm cut off and the box whirred to a stop. But another sound picked up, coming from inside the box. It first sounded like a cantankerous goat's bleating, but the wail was soon identified as coming from the new greenie himself.

Pushing to the front of the semicircle, Cleo heard Gally mutter irritably before hopping down to undo the elevator's fencing. There was something to be said for welcoming a new face into their world, blank stares and anger and all, and Cleo had yet to miss an arrival since her own.

The constant howling halted as soon as the box was opened and was replaced by yells of, "Go away! Leave me alone!"

The variability of hormones meant that all teenagers grew at different rates, as evidenced by Frypan's barrel chest versus Winston's gangly limbs, but holy klunk the new greenie had drawn the shortest stick of them all. Small and tubby, he was cowering in the corner by the new batch of fertilizer. Dark locks curled just in front of his eyes and he was red-faced from all the shouting.

"Great punching-bag size," Minho quipped, edging out a laugh from those nearest him. Cleo was inclined to agree if the greenie didn't shut up.

On cue, the kid took a deep breath to begin yelling again, but Alby cut him off. "Green bean! Hold off, you're fine." With Gally's help, they hauled him up and out onto the dirt, where he sat with his head on his knees in dead silence.

"Thought you'd never shut up," came the first taunt.

"C'mon greenie, look alive!"

Jeff piped up from beside Cleo. "Can't put you to work tucked up like that!"

It wasn't long until the kid started wailing again and Alby called off the heckling. A couple builders tried to haul the boy up and toward the slammer for safekeeping, but he started struggling like a fish hitting air.

"Hey! Careful." Cleo called over the disbursing Gladers when she saw his arm being twisted awkwardly. "I don't wanna have to fix him before he even gets to eat."

The kid looked up at the sound of her voice, mesmerized at the first girl he'd caught sight of. The pause in his squirming was enough to haul him away without further fighting.

Alby's voice was suddenly at Cleo's side. "Alright, so girls calm him. Probably thinks you won't rough him up."

"And that's only 'cause I'd be the one puttin' him back together right after," she scoffed. "Shank'll have to tighten up with the yelling or I wouldn't be the only one stuffin' his throat."

"Point is, he'll be more open to being shown around if you're there." He paused for her expected outburst, and it came as sure as sunshine.

"What? Alby, c'mon." A breeze tufted the ends of her braid against her back as her arms fell open pleadingly. "Don't you think Eliza could handle show and tell a little better?"

Eliza herself spoke up. "From the looks of it he could hurt himself any minute and I think you should be there for that."

Cleo dragged her eyes toward the slammer where it stood at the edge of the woods, and where her project for the next couple of hours sat wiping his runny nose behind those bamboo bars.

"Aye-aye, captainess."

Alby turned back toward the box, giving Gally a hand with the first few crates of supplies. "And I'm gonna be helpin' the builders with their new stacks of wood, so Newt will take the lead on the greenie's orientation. Unless you wanna fly solo?"

"She won't be takin' a chance of that, Alby." Newt strolled up and stole the words from Cleo's own mouth, sunlight beaming down to accentuate the ends of his mussed hair with pure gold. He pitched an elbow into her own and nodded his head invitingly away from the box.

Dried grass crumpled quietly under their feet. "What if he's just a perv? I wasn't too keen on his turning-to-stone routine when seein' us two girls." Cleo was far from scared, but had no room in her brimful cup for greenie antics.

"You don't think you could take the shank if he tried somethin'?" Newt's grin was bursting with reassurance. "Besides, he's had a few minutes to calm down. Maybe we scared him enough."

Sure enough, the greenie was cowered against the back wall of the pit when Cleo and Newt approached and leaned on the front bars.

"Please, I think my name's Chuck, but I didn't do anything. Just don't hurt me!"

Cleo glanced over to Newt's raised eyebrows and they shared the tightline smiles of holding back laughter. "Look, kid. Chuck. Nobody's gonna hurt you. You'll learn that's one of our rules."

Newt picked up the tag-team. "Do you remember anything, Chuckie? Your name's a real good start, but have you got anything else?"

A gnat nipped at Cleo's forearm and she brushed it away with a mindless swoop. Asking greenies for any new memories seemed more and more pointless each time, yet the hope of gleaning any new helpful information outweighed it by ten pounds. But this story played the same tune as all the others; Chuck had no recollections save his name and was more interested in learning about his surroundings.

"Well I'm Newt and that's Cleo. And do you –"

"Are ya about ready to get outta there?" Cleo threw a smug wink at the second in command as she sped things along. They tugged him out by an arm each and watched as he took in the Glade one curious head-swivel at a time.

Cleo reined in her long strides to stay in line alongside Chuck and Newt, and the greenie was short enough between them that she could still share a smirk with the blonde when needed. So it was a simple task to follow Newt's line of sight toward their first destination, his own home turf.

"Those are the gardens. If you wanna eat, don't mess 'em up." His pointed finger fanned over the rows of planted seeds and new sprouts as well as the chest-high crops and columns of vines tied to arbors.

Winston stopped them a few yards in front of the next target on the tour, wiping his machete from fresh blood and sliding it into its hilt. Once he'd gloated over the kid's widened eyes, he asked, "We still callin' you greenie, right?"

"Actually I, uh, my name is Chuck."

"Whoa! Kid's already got his name." Winston's eyes gleamed mischievously as they rolled over to Cleo. "Y'know, Chuck, it's Cleo here that holds the record for longest time without rememberin' her name."

She scoffed, trying to drive him off his tracks before he continued, but to no avail. "C'mon, we don't have all day for your babblin'."

"And do ya wanna know how she finally remembered it? Eight days in, she and Gally had way too much of his drink and that night we could hear –"

"Wow, would ya look at the time!" Her open hand landed harshly on his shoulder while the other pointed at the setting sun. "I'm pretty sure I tell you with _every_ greenie, Winston, that they don't need any stories on day one."

Cleo's tawny cheeks masked the shamed heat rushing to her face but thankfully she'd cut Winston off early enough before he could jabber about her early mishap.

The sex wasn't even that good, how could it be? She and Gally barely knew each other and bumbling around drunk wasn't exactly romantic. It just so happened that when the strapping builder asked if she had a name to go with that pretty ass, it came rolling off her tongue as easily as slipping off her shirt.

All was forgiven, but only memories from before the Glade could be wiped. Thankfully, all it did to Cleo's reputation was maybe shine it up a bit and she and Gally agreed that it meant nothing. Though she'd yet to have a decent conversation with him since.

Newt finally broke into a wide smile, drawing Cleo out of her defensive haze and back into the glowing heat of the afternoon.

"Winston, if you waste all your bloody rambling on day one, what's the greenie to look forward to for the rest of the month?"

The slicer waved them off with mumbles about slintheads, and Cleo felt Newt's fingertips graze the small of her back as he steered her and Chuck to face the kitchen and Frypan's delicious food.

* * *

"Light 'em up, y'all!"

Cleo stretched her arm back, careful not to catch the ends of her loose curls on fire before she hurled the flaming spear into the pyre. A cheer tore open the muggy night as sparks turned to flames that licked all the way around until they illuminated each pair of shining eyes and triumphant fist pumps.

Slick condensation coated Cleo's palm as Jeff came up and shoved a drink at her. "I made Clint be on call tonight, since it's probably his last bonfire as a med-jack." His failed attempt at a whisper made sense with how tipsy he already was.

"You mind not tellin' everyone about it yet?" Cleo couldn't keep a stern face at Jeff's giddy one, so she lightly shoved him away. "But thanks anyway, Jeff."

She'd come a long way from being a lightweight with Gally's drink that first week and so had no problem downing a few jarfuls. When the first round of the brown liquid finished scratching down her throat, Cleo bumped and jostled her way through the crowd in search of another.

It was a comfortable kind of crowd, with tension falling away from shoulders and laughter ringing out left and right. Even the shadowed treeline seemed to melt into nothing more than dark curtains at a party.

At least the maze couldn't steal every ounce of happiness from them.

"You did good with Chuck today." Eliza was perched near the drink bench, watchful as always. Her eyes were a darker shade of blue against the gold-lit night but the warm smile was still the same. "He seems to be finding his way around."

Cleo tapped an unfamiliar tune on her newfound jar, taking a moment to actually people-watch. "Well, he did get the klunk scared out of him a few times. Most of your thanks should probably go to Newt cause he's the one with whole calming doe-eyed routine."

"What, you didn't leave the kid relaxed?"

"Alright! Watch yourself, ma'am," Cleo drawled her teasing nickname as the mob of talkative boys beckoned to her.

Frypan was prepared with a fantastic tale to tell when Cleo approached his food layout and she listened intently between bites and laughing about the shuckery of all the usual shanks. There was a slicer to her left, adding details and gestures to the story with an arm tattooed all the way to his wrist.

She had some extra ink on display, too; her frayed shorts laid bare the mountain range on her thighs. She absentmindedly scratched at the tattoos, having long since given up wondering why she got them. That was all before the Glade.

As soon as Frypan's story trickled to an end, an arm abruptly hooked itself around Cleo's shoulders and nearly toppled her drink when swinging her away from the food.

"Who's about to get their _shucking_ …oh. Shoulda known." Cleo peered sideways at the dark brown doe-eyes she'd mentioned earlier and Newt flashed a cheeky grin in return.

Despite the snug embrace, he wasn't drunk. Everyone got more touchy-feely at bonfires as more drinks were poured and the night wore on, making his usual touches blend in even more.

"How are you?"

"I was doing fine minglin' on my own until you swooped in." She batted her eyes strongly.

"And here I was thinkin' you were better off in my company." Newt slightly loosened his hold on her frame. "Isn't mingling supposed to be movin' around to different people anyway?"

"And what, that accent gives you the right to steal the company you want?" She beamed at him, Gally's drink running a warm course through her veins and giving her eyes a playful twinkle. "Other than your kidnapping maneuver, I'm doing fine."

The banter between them cleared its own path through the thick night and Newt's limp was barely noticeable as they made their way around the bonfire. Suddenly, their attention was drawn when a yell came from the wrestling circle.

With Newt close at her side, Cleo pushed over to the group already spectating and found Gally grappling with one of his builders. Gally was actually the one shouting because he was in a headlock, but it wasn't long before the other boy was shoved clear outside of the dirt boundary.

"Who's next?" Gally challenged.

Arnie stepped forward and soon they were scuffling in the dirt to the tune of snickering and jeers from the onlookers. Newt's shoulder was warm as it rested firmly against Cleo's own, a column of support for them both against the jostling crowd.

A gust of wind blustered the bonfire brighter for a moment and after eyeing the flames, Cleo focused back on the boy next to her. Newt was massaging his mouth, thoughts flitting somewhere else despite his stare fixed forward. The thoughts must've hit a brick wall because he blinked them away and turned to match Cleo's gaze.

"What, you sizin' me up to throw me out there?"

Cleo shrugged but as she opened her mouth to fire back, Gally called out for another contender. Chuck all but bounced into the makeshift ring, holding his hand up like a schoolchild.

"Pick me! I'll try!"

Gally's eyes narrowed keenly before Alby spoke up and stepped in the way. "Not a chance, not like this. But I'm not gonna deny the greenie a shot, just maybe not with our resident sumo over there." He let the ripple of laughter settle before his proposition. "So, anybody wanna take on Chuck?"

Newt jolted his elbow into Cleo's ribs with a devilish expression. "C'mon Cleo, I think you should have a go."

It was a joke, Cleo knew his teasing voice like her own stitchwork. Frypan, however, did not and thought the suggestion was a fantastic one.

"Yeah, let's let Cleo do it!"

The idea caught fire and soon her name was being cheered like she was the champion in a boxing movie. She stepped confidently inside the circle to accept the challenge, even if the reason they wanted her was that she wouldn't be as hardcore as Gally.

A brief glance back showed Newt's eyes gleaming at her, proud and laughing at the situation he'd gotten her into.

"Look, greenie, I ain't even gonna pull my hair up. Give me your best shot," she coached a jumpy Chuck over the applause and hollers of the other boys. "You know how this works?"

His excited nod sent his short curls bouncing. "I'm game!"

The two circled each other, shadows from firelight coming from all angles in an expressive dance around their faces. A sheen of sweat sprang up on Cleo's skin from the sheer proximity to so much body heat and she used the sleeve of her tattered shirt to pat at the back of her neck.

Eventually Cleo stopped and planted her boots firmly in the dirt, preparing to catch his short shoulders when he charged at her. Chuck did just that, legs pumping and letting loose a short war cry as he ran closer and closer.

And clocked her square on the cheek.

It wasn't a good punch, really. His fist was angled awkwardly and the thumb was tucked on the inside. But holy hell the kid pulled strength from somewhere cause it _hurt_ all the same.

The world slowed a bit so Cleo clamped her eyes shut to stop it from moving at all. The throbbing seeped all the way into her temple and she could only pray that the hit hadn't been at the right angle to fracture anything. She'd survived so far in the Glade without turning out too shabby-looking, and it was gonna be to hell with the greenie who messed that up.

There had been a collective cry when the blow landed and by the time Cleo opened her eyes a few of the boys had dragged Chuck back a few feet. A hand splayed itself between her shoulder blades and what was probably Alby's voice spoke in her ear.

"Cleo? Can you hear me?" And then more sternly to the crowd, "Hey, where are my med-jacks!"

Jeff got to her first, lips pressed in a concerned line as he gingerly tilted her head to the side and examined the bruise. "I told you I wasn't on call and you decide to get yourself hurt?"

A small smile tugged at her mouth, stretching the skin on her injured cheek with only the faintest sting. Cleo was thankful for his jokes and that he knew she wanted those at a moment like this.

"Yeah, really my fault on this one. But I'm fine, ok?" She gently pushed him away with promises to ice it and watch for swelling or bleeding and all the things he'd apparently forgotten that she knew how to do.

Chuck was still being held temporary prisoner when Cleo saw him again. All she had to do was take one lunging step and he ran screaming toward the homestead, taunts and laughs in his wake.

"I don't think you have to crucify the kid, Alby," she said to the leader still positioned next to her. "He's probably scared enough of me as it is."

He nodded firmly as Eliza sidled up next to him. "I think this pretty girl here will agree with you, but that doesn't mean a stern talk won't do any good. The slammer looks pretty handy, too."

The order for bedtime came next and the crowd moseyed toward the promise of sleep. Cleo didn't even have the chance to test the waters of taking a few steps before Newt was whisking her to the side for the second time that night.

"Hey, you alright?" Guilt had shadowed his eyes completely and he was gnawing at his bottom lip.

She patted his face sympathetically. "Haven't you already asked me that tonight?"

"Leave your fun and games with Jeff, please."

"Look, apology accepted, ok? Even though there's nothin' to be sorry about." Cleo was careful to not snap too hard. "Better me than Gally or someone who would pummel the greenie for even a missed swing. And I'm a tough girl, you know that. I have my own stores of passionflower and everything."

The negativity gripping him drained away and left a relaxed smile in its place. "So the next time the two of us have to play mum and dad with a greenie, it's my turn to let him slug me?"

"Shuckin' right."

The torch nearby faded to embers as she slung an arm comfortably around him to guide them toward the homestead. Before he let them part ways, however, Newt stopped her again.

"You wake me up if somethin' hurts," he urged softly. "I'm your second call behind Jeff."

Maybe it was the late hour or the dull pain in her cheek, or something else entirely, but Cleo found herself tenderly gripping his hand. "I promise. Thanks, Newt."


	4. Jumping the Gun

Holy shuck. This definitely wasn't how Cleo envisioned her morning making its debut.

Clint had never been very good at social timing. Maybe his jokes were alright, but the week prior he'd skipped out on helping birth a baby goat to go work out in the woods again. This left Cleo as head nurse for the miracle of life, which she found to be vastly different that stitching up an arm split open.

She was too busy gagging afterwards to skin Clint alive.

Which is why when Jeff came bounding into the med-jack hut panting about how "Clint did it, he told them," Cleo was considering that flaying idea again.

"Who did he tell, Jeff?"

The boy's chest heaved again, a runner he was not. "I think he only tried for Alby at first, but Gally heard the word builder and butted in."

Cleo resolutely tugged her gauntlets back off and tossed them aside as she asked, "So what's happenin' now? Has a riot formed yet?"

"Dunno. I just came to tell ya that whatever's gonna happen with all this is happenin' today."

The hut was usually her fortress, walls of bamboo behind which she could retreat to if she needed a moment away from the Glade's issues. But damn the Creators if she was gonna sit like a helpless princess behind them for this. It was time to roll with the punches, even if they felt like roundhouse kicks.

Jeff had just taken a seat across the room when Cleo bolted up and dusted herself off, touching a hand to her cheek bruise where it was now only vaguely brown. "Well I'm gonna see what's going on out there before they make any decisions without me."

There was no time to make good on her declaration, however, before the door swung open and Newt leaned in against the doorframe. He laughed before he even spoke, shaking his head free of some disbelief.

"I, uh, a council meeting has been called and I've been sent to get both of you. But you," he swung his finger at Cleo, "you're the one in the hotseat."

She simply wagged her eyebrows at him. "Is this where I say that I was born ready?"

"This better not be draggin' me into the trouble, too." Jeff huffed.

"Hey, you already declined from takin' over in this switch. I'm thinkin' it's all gonna fall on me and Clint."

Newt interrupted their tiff. "Oh and Cleo, I think I heard Gally demanding something about you bringing the stool that Clint said he built."

She smirked at him and muttered under her breath, "It's like we're going to a shuckin' courtroom."

With the sturdy wooden seat tucked under her arm, Cleo ushered herself and Jeff out into the daybreak. Dew like mud stuck to their shoes and eyelashes and even Newt's hair got a little fluffier.

"So Clint just up and decided he didn't want to be a med-jack?" Newt's tongue snaked out to punctuate the question leaving his lips.

Cleo hummed in agreement. "Apparently. Some mid-life crisis for a sixteen year old."

"And what, he figured Gally was a jolly good boss as any?"

"Is this meeting gonna focus on the past or what's ahead?" Cleo shot back, a small but unwelcome bundle of nerves mulling around low in her belly. "Cause I'm hopin' that me becoming keeper is on the agenda, too."

Newt swiveled on his good leg to walk backwards and face her. "Look, Cleo, I'm just tryin' to understand cause this is the first I've heard of any of it. I'm not doubting you at all."

She nodded her thanks but it was too early to get all soppy over his vote of confidence. Newt was faced forward again by the time they reached the meeting hall where it was stashed in one corner of the Glade in all its rickety wooden glory.

"Well," Jeff moved up to flank Cleo, "this is about the only time I'll be in on a council meeting, I guess. I'm lookin' forward to my insider peek."

Cleo was going to tease him about what he was wanting a peek at, but she noticed Newt's back straightening when they walked into the hall and did the same. The more seriously the council took her, the easier the whole ordeal would go.

The door creaked closed behind them to effectively isolate the boys from the men, if you could call any unfortunate soul in the Glade a real man. The inner group was a crew whose faces Cleo knew well, and she couldn't tell if that was a comfort or a concern. Instead she focused on finding an empty beam to lean against.

"So who's gonna give the rundown on whatever the hell this is?" Alby broke the silence.

Clint and Cleo shared a nod before he spoke. "The short version? I'm tired of being a med-jack and so want to become a builder. We'd be leaving Cleo as Keeper."

Gally's arms were crossed ironclad against his chest and his wild eyebrows were knitted. "Anything we'd be missin' in the long version?"

"All the training and prep that's been done!" Cleo couldn't help the defense flying out of her mouth. "Clint's been workin' out in the woods for weeks now and Jeff and I have taken care of most of all the medical work."

There was a sense of secrecy and insubordination to their actions, Cleo knew full well. It's what was bothering Alby and everyone else. So she fought through it, willing it to not cloud their minds so far that her hopes for change amounted to nothing.

"Look, I swear Clint's good at it, and –"

"Let's see the handiwork then." Gally's hand was held out, a greedy palm demanding ransom.

Cleo handed him the stool and watched as he scrutinized the screws and the sanding and all the other random klunk Clint had been yammering about for weeks. Without looking up from the inspection, Gally tossed another question at Clint.

"Why'd you wanna stop the med-jack stuff?"

Clint dragged a hand down his face. "I'm tired of it, man, the stuff we gotta see and –"

"You can't just get tired of doing your job." Devil's advocate was a necessary position in any worthwhile debate, but the way Gally was handling it made Cleo's skin prickle.

Apparently Newt felt the same. "Are you gonna bloody let him finish?" His hand was dawdling at the leather strap taut against his chest and he ushered on Clint with a firm nod.

"Look," Clint began again, sweeping a gaze at the row of other keepers on the closest curved bench, "you don't know what it's like to have someone injured or die on your watch. It can really take a lot out of ya and I don't wanna see it anymore."

Cleo clenched her jaw as she felt a few glances turn and study her, no doubt wondering if she would soon be affected the same way. She hoped the grim line of her lips would show that she was better at handling it than Clint.

A deep sigh hissed out of Gally and he faced Alby with wide, defeated arms. "It's on you for this. Explaining to everyone why we're suddenly goin' haywire with who works where is gonna mess with the order we've got."

"Let's give Clint a test drive for a week or so with you," Alby placated, "but I think it'll be a good fit."

Clint nodded, relief showering his features because his end of the deal was sealed. On the flip side, Cleo's nerves were rushing toward the sheer drop of a cliff as the next conversation rounded over to her.

"So now that I've got Clint the builder," it was Gally again, spearheading the hostility, "we're just gonna let them choose their own med-jack keeper? Is nothing sacred about how the council is supposed to have the last say?"

"Lay off for a tick, Gally." Newt stepped to where he could be directly across the room from Cleo and shot her a knowing gaze. "This whole thing has definitely made a mess of our order and I think Alby'll agree that we can still do our deciding now."

Minho finally looked up after finishing the mass of breakfast he'd hauled in, eager to input with all the manners of a bull. "Hasn't she basically been runnin' it like a keeper already?"

"But keepers have more responsibility, her vote would count for something in the council." Zart spoke up despite avoiding eye contact with the pushy runner.

Back and forth it went with the remaining keepers as if Cleo had petals with Loves Me, Loves Me Not waiting to be plucked off. _Can she_ , _can't she_ , _is it right to do this_ , _what about the order_. Always about the shucking order. It was great for keeping them from fighting and starving, but when it came time for change the order stood in the way.

Cleo's leg kept a bouncing pace that would make a swing band proud. The waiting and second-guessing was gnawing at her while the doubts swirled. How could they be taking this long? Was it her ability, her attitudes? An invisible seniority barrier? Or god forbid, the fact that she didn't have a dick to swing around?

Cleo slammed her palm into the bench with an exasperated grunt and the voices stopped immediately.

"What's _with_ this? Think I can't be a keeper cause I'm a girl? Bunch of sexist slintheads. Didn't I make the best damn drug we've got? I'll bet y'all think –"

"Cleo!" Newt's voice iced her words in their path. "Slim it good and tight."

With eyes still trained on Newt, Cleo screwed her jaw shut and twisted a finger around a loose thread of her shirt. Her reckless outburst was suddenly embarrassing.

Newt continued, tone still hardened but gaze softer. "This isn't about you being a girl and for sure not your abilities. Shuck, you're one of the best workers we've got. Just let us finish, alright?"

The deliberations thankfully didn't take much longer, though Cleo still paced for their duration until Alby's deep voice called to her.

"If you're done with the marching," he quirked a smile, "I'll have time to tell ya that yeah, you're good to go. The vote was in your favor, Keeper."

A grin tugged Cleo's mouth wide and Jeff slapped his congratulations against her shoulder. More responsibility dawned on her horizon and she couldn't be more ready.

"Thanks, guys. And I s'pose I should say sorry."

Alby waved her off. "We've got a few hotheads already, one more won't hurt."

* * *

Cleo sought out Newt after the gathering held later that afternoon. The rest of the boys had been filled in and Eliza was ecstatic for the newest keeper, though the majority of the Gladers were unaffected by the new decisions and gave no more than a thumbs up.

She caught him en route to the gardens for a last few hours' worth of work. He slowed his long stride to acknowledge her with a smirk.

"Now don't get in your head that you can take over my position just cause you've moved up in the ranks once, okay?"

"Oh c'mon," she drawled as a breeze blew by to cool their sweat-dotted necks, "you didn't think they were ready to hand me a crown in there?"

"Not when I was the one savin' your arse," he laughed.

"Yeah, I wanted to say thanks for that, by the way. And the compliments were a nice trick for shuttin' me up."

A warm smile lit from his eyes to his mouth and infected her. "See? Told you I didn't doubt ya."

Jeff's voice cut clear across the meadow through the conversation. "Hey Cleo! You mind helpin' me close up shop for the day, keeper-lady?"

Newt's was a swift goodbye and Cleo dashed to her hut, a flurry of dust and sunshine in her wake. The suture thread had twisted itself into a handful of nasty knots that Jeff handed her when she stepped inside, to which she tossed back a dry "Thanks".

Jeff had just put away freshly cut strips of gauze when he nonchalantly spoke to Cleo's turned back. "So, uh, you listened to Newt real quick today."

"We all live and talk in the same square mile every day, man, you're gonna have to be more specific."

"In council this morning, when –"

"When I was bein' a dramatic shank?" she finished, turning around but keeping her eyes trained on the last stubborn knot. "Yeah, he was shushin' me before I blew my own chance."

Jeff shrugged, obviously trying to downplay whatever he was chattering on about. "Look, all I'm sayin' is that I can see you're comfortable with the guy. That's gotta be nice, right?"

Cleo slowly put down the thread. Having Jeff who for all intents and purposes was a brother was cool, right up until it turned into his irritating matchmaking games.

"Alright, lay off, you're seein' stuff again." Cleo lazily brushed at the air between them in hopes of driving him off. He'd thought she was starry-eyed plenty of times before.

He shrugged again but kept a peculiar stare. "I don't know, he's a good guy. Maybe this time my psychic abilities will work."

"Have you psychically seen yet how I'm gonna shove my foot up your ass?"

"Just lemme know if this one works out. One of these days I'll get you set up nice and right."

Cleo thanked the heavens somewhere high above them when Jeff left her alone in the hut, but try as she might to distract herself with reorganizing a crate of oils, the feeling in her gut didn't go away.

The feeling that Jeff was right.

Newt was an easy and trustworthy friend and she'd noticed it, too – that her ears were tuned to listen to his voice in a crowd and she was most content when lounging next to him on slow nights.

Whatever all that meant, she couldn't let it slow her down now. She focused back on the thrill of her new title and breathed an easy sigh into the empty med-jack hut that was now officially her dominion.


End file.
